THIS BLOG IS NO LONGER OPERATIONAL. PLEASE ENJOY WHAT IS HERE, AND DO LEAVE A COMMENT IF YOU WISH. NORTH CAROLINA'S NEW POET LAUREATE IS CATHY SMITH BOWERS. SHE WILL SOON HAVE HER OWN WEBSITE THROUGH THE NORTH CAROLINA ARTS COUNCIL SITE. I WILL BE SHIFTING MY ATTENTION TO HERE, WHERE I AM, (SEE SIDEBAR)USING IT TO DRAW ATTENTION TO WRITERS WHOSE WORK DESERVES ATTENTION. I INVITE YOU TO VISIT ME THERE.For a video of the installation ceremony, please go to http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0xAk6fOzaNE.

Monday, December 22, 2008

A Sheaf of Christmas Poems

Going through old computer files yesterday, I found these Christmas poems, originally part of the manuscript that became BLACK SHAWL. I saw Mary in these pieces as being here in the NC mountains rather than being a young girl in Nazareth over 2000 years ago. The reader at LSU Press suggested they be dropped, that they functioned better as a small chapbook of poems to be published later. They've waited ever since. As well as I can remember, they were first printed years ago in a journal whose poetry editor was my friend Janice Townley Moore. The Georgia Journal, I believe was its name. Anyway, here they are again, two days before another Christmas. The photos come from sunsets in S. Georgia and holly bushes, as well as waxing and full moons, here in the mountains.

BLUE

is her colorbecause it was always the lastthing she saw through

her window before losingcount of the heddle’sbeat. Blue hem

beyond reach, shedreamed herselfwearing it, skirt flaring

out of the narrow glasswhere she saw turningand turning her own image

till in a swoonshe might gather up into the bluelap of heaven

the stars and the moonas if they were no more thanthe first fruits of May,

the wild strawberries she loved to eat as she carriedthem home to her table.

AVE

This wind!She cannot hold her bonnetagainst it and lets gothe sashes. A kite of bluecalico sails away overthe fields while a child laughsand points at the spectacle,blustery March making lightof her modesty till not a hairpin’sleft clinging, her heavy braidstumbling like bell-ropesaround her. So here she stands,skirt swelling forth in its manifoldemptiness, as if she’s cometo the edge of a seaand hears far out a voicecalling, gull maybe,though she lives nowhere nearwater and she knows her nameis not BEATA.

OH MARIA, MARIS STELLA

what have we made of you,when you were happy enough to be sucklingyour baby, ignoring the tumult of heaven,the scuffle of shepherd’s feet.Wise men on camels meant little to you,their frankincense, myrrh.You could take it or leave it.

What good what it do youwhose only concern was the milk you feltslowly beginning to thicken your breasts?Or the worry that Joseph had not eaten,you should have brought along moreof your grandmother’s journey-cake,more of her dried figs and almonds.

No seafarer's daughter, you grew upto quail at the stories of drowning menmerchants brought back from the sea ports,for you were no braver than most women.You liked to think of yourself as a dropin the Lord’s deep and, save for a scribe’serror, you might have stayed "stilla maris"forever. You had no desire to be star

looking out at the straggleof sheepherders leading their flockto the hovel where you are still groggyfrom childbirth. You wish they would go away,seek out some other to worship,for you are too tired to look blessed.But it is expected of you.Now and for two thousand years you mustlift up your eyes from your infantand hear us out, bearingsuch words as could almost make youbelieve you are beautiful.

JOSEPH

And what of you, Joseph? Still lost in the barnshadows, stroking your beardwhile the curious goats crowd about her,as if they have already guessed who she is,not just any poor country girl born

to the tending of livestock. When she calls, you do not go near.Is the sight of such bringing forth more than you fear you can bear?Not to mention her blood and the odor of animal everywhere.

All night you stand in the dark stall pretendingyour name never crossesher lips. How much longer before you will goto her, man enough at last to lookupon God in His baffling dependency?

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About Me

I've lived in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina since 1968, though I'm a native of SW Georgia. My paternal grandmother was born in the Blue Ridge, and I grew up wanting to live here. Where I am.
I've published five collections of poetry, the most recent 4 being with LSU Press, and have published poetry in magazines ranging from The Atlantic Monthly to Appalachian Heritage. But I also hike, bang pots and pans around in my kitchen, and love several dogs who leave fur all over my carpets. I write poetry because it's my way of singing back to the world both within and without.